Daming: Brother, there is no future for monks, let's rebel

The man's eyelids twitched, and he suddenly stuffed the cloth bag into his arms, turned around, and dashed away.

Zhu Han didn't even raise his hand. With a flick of his toe, a thin copper coin was nailed into the door frame with a "ding". The man had just touched the door when his shoulder blade felt like it had been bitten by a snake, and he froze on the spot.

"Open the window," Zhu Han said.

Zhu Biao was taken aback: "A window?"

“There are two windows in this house,” Zhu Han said without even looking at the man, “one facing the street and the other facing the well. The latch on the window facing the street is old; the latch on the window facing the well is new. This means that people often go in and out from the well side.”

Zhu Biao walked to the window facing the well and, sure enough, saw the wooden lock with its fresh paint still wet, and shoe prints still smudged beside it. He turned the lock, opened the window, and a wave of dampness hit him; the moss around the well was shiny and slippery.

"I saw it," Zhu Biao said in a low voice.

"Who's coming this way?" Zhu Han asked the man.

The man gritted his teeth and said, "Go ask the well yourselves."

“Okay.” Zhu Han nodded. “I’ll ask about the well.”

He closed the window, turned around, and looked at the man: "Who are you selling 'Returning Souls' to?"

"I do not--"

"For Lan Yu's people?" Zhu Han interrupted him. "Or for someone in the palace?"

The man's Adam's apple bobbed, but he remained silent.

“You think I’m asking about Luo Xuan?” Zhu Han said slowly. “I’m not asking about him. I’m asking—who wiped Lan Yu’s nose in the moment before he died?”

The man's pupils contracted slightly, as if pricked by a needle, then immediately dilated: "You're talking nonsense."

“The rope he used to hang himself didn’t leave deep marks. Even if the rope is hung properly after death, there won’t be the same bulging marks on his carotid artery that he had when he was alive.”

Zhu Han's voice was like counting nails, "He was tampered with before he died. You provided medicine, not a knife."

The man stared at him for a long time, as if looking at a beast he had never seen before. Then, he suddenly laughed.

“Your Highness,” he said in a hoarse voice, “you’re looking for ‘who did it’? What you really want to know is ‘who dared to do it.’ This medicine…who am I selling this medicine to? Do you really want to know?”

"explain."

“Sold to ‘Shadow Division’.”

Zhu Biao's brow twitched: "Shadow Division?"

“A shadowy agency within the palace.” The man licked his lips. “Not the Embroidered Uniform Guard, not the Eastern Depot, not anyone. You can’t see it, you can’t touch it, only hear its footsteps. Sometimes, you’ll hear footsteps stop at your bedside—you wake up, and you remember nothing.”

"Who is the head of the Shadow Division?" Shen Lu asked.

The man laughed as if he were coughing: "Who can see a head that's been cast in a shadow?"

"Who set the price?" Zhu Han asked.

"Whoever's shadow it is, that's who gets it." The man raised his eyelids, revealing a fearless red glint within. "However—shadows are living beings, and sometimes they lose their souls. Don't you think so?"

"Who did you sell it to to retrieve the 'soul'?" Zhu Han blocked the last door.

The man was silent for a moment, then squeezed out two words: "Wu Zhen".

The light in the room suddenly popped, oil splattered, the flame flickered, and then immediately straightened up again.

Zhu Biao and Shen Lu exchanged a glance. They had just watched that name being escorted to the Meridian Gate yesterday—"No life under the cane."

“Dead people don’t buy medicine,” Zhu Biao said in a low voice.

“He bought it when he was alive.” The man shrugged. “He would only take half a pack each time, saying ‘that’s enough,’ very economical. Then one time, he said it wasn’t enough and he wanted the whole pack—and just three days after that, a big shot died in prison.”

"Lan Yu." Shen Lu uttered these two words, and the air seemed to be weighed down by a piece of iron.

“I don’t recognize names,” the man laughed. “I only recognize footsteps.”

Zhu Han stared at him: "You've said so much tonight, do you even want to live tomorrow?"

“I don’t want to right now.” The man pushed the packet of “Returning Soul” towards Zhu Han. “People in this line of work never have a tomorrow. Your Highness, I only ask you one question—if one day, your shadow comes looking for you, will you run away?”

Zhu Han remained silent for a moment, then reached out and lifted the cloth bag, gently shaking it. The powder floated out in a thin line under the light.

“I won’t run,” he said. “I’ll wait.”

The man suddenly smiled, a smile that held no meaning: "So, do you want this house, or my life?"

"I don't want any of them." Zhu Han put the bag back on the counter. "Close the shop tonight, and tomorrow leave the city to find an abandoned well at the foot of North Mountain and wait for my men. After that, you sell straw sandals."

The man froze: "You...you're not going to kill me?"

“You told the truth.” Zhu Han turned around. “The truth is worth a life.”

As they went out, the wind blew up from the well, like the night taking a breath of cool air.

Reaching the alley entrance, Zhu Biao asked in a low voice, "Uncle, does such a shadowy government office really exist?"

“Yes.” Zhu Han didn’t turn around. “Where there is a shadow, there is a person. It’s just that you can tell who stands in front of the lamp and who stands behind it—once you can tell, the shadows will disperse.”

“Wu Zhen is dead, the thread is broken,” Shen Lu said. “Then, to whom does the shadow belong?”

“Return to the lamp.” Zhu Han’s steps suddenly slowed down, as if he were counting something. “In other words, return to the eyes.”

"Father?" Zhu Biao suppressed the jolt in his heart.

“I said ‘eyes,’ not whose,” Zhu Han said calmly. “Eyes can see, and they can be covered. What we’re doing is first lifting the veil, and then seeing if there are eyes inside.”

"What if not?"

"Then close the window. Don't let the wind in."

The next day, in the backyard of the Chengtian Prefecture government office, Zhu Han placed the "Returning Soul" in a celadon cup and summoned the most reliable old doctor in the prefecture.

The old doctor smacked his lips, smelled the powder, and raised his eyebrows: "Good heavens, this is a mixture of 'sleep aid' and 'poppy,' with a little musk and other musk-related odors added. If you blow it on your nostrils, you'll become drowsy within three breaths and won't wake up even after half a cup of tea."

"Can it cause suffocation?" Zhu Han asked.

“If you cover your nose and mouth—naturally.” The old doctor looked up. “Your Highness, this thing cannot be kept.”

“It’s ruined,” Zhu Han said.

The old doctor nodded, but turned back as he left: "Your Highness, if I may be so bold as to say something—some medicines may ruin the powder, but they can't erase the memory of the hand. Some people can recall the formula after smelling it just once in their lives."

"Hmm." Zhu Han looked at the sliver of sky outside the window. "I know."

After everyone had left, Zhu Biao walked to the small stove and listened to the powder "poof" on the fire until it stopped making a sound.

“Uncle, Wu Zhen bought the medicine while he was alive. We can’t find out whose orders he was on at that time.”

“We can check,” Zhu Han said. “Check the footsteps.”

"pace?"

"From the pharmacy to the palace gate, there are seven dark alleys and four underpasses. Wu Zhen is not tall, but he walks quickly. If he goes by himself every time, there will definitely be a place where he stops to catch his breath."

"which place?"

"The windy spot in the north of the city." Zhu Han turned to look at him. "Come with me."

The vent was behind a section of broken wall, which was shady, receiving no light during the day and even cooler at night. At the base of the wall was a shallow well, half-dried up, its rim worn smooth as if frequently touched by hand.

Zhu Han reached out and touched the edge of the well, his fingertips covered with a thin layer of powdery ash—not soil, but like ashes.

“He stops here.” Zhu Han flicked away the dust. “Every time he comes from the shop and walks to this spot, he stops for three or four breaths, leans against the well to catch his breath, and then continues.”

"How do you know it's 'every time'?" Zhu Biao asked.

"There are two layers of oil on the well rim, one old and one new. It's from sweaty hands over time."

Zhu Han looked up and said, "He always takes this route, which means it's safe here, or—someone is here to pick him up."

Shen Lu ran his fingers along the cracks in the wall beside the well, his fingertip pausing on an inconspicuous wooden wedge: "Your Highness, there's a mechanism here."

"Don't move." Zhu Han took out his short knife, and with a gentle flick of the tip next to the wooden wedge, a thread as thin as a hair sprang out. "Tie it inside." He wrapped the thread around the hilt of the knife, pulled it back, and with a "click," the wall loosened by half an inch.

Behind the wall, a narrow, dark alleyway, almost impassable, was revealed. A blast of cold air hit us.

"Go in," Zhu Han said decisively.

At the end of the alley was a small room where you had to stretch your arm out to touch the wall. Inside, there was only a low table, a lamp that had been out for who knows how long, and an open wooden box.

Inside the wooden box, there were a dozen or so small bronze plaques, each so thin that light could pass through them, and each plaque was engraved with a single character: "Shadow".

Zhu Biao reached out and picked one up, placing it in his palm. The coldness made his palms sweat.

“Shadow Division,” Shen Lu exhaled, “is indeed not just empty talk.”

A thin piece of leather was pressed against the corner of the table. Zhu Han lifted it, revealing a string of tiny characters: "'In all murder cases, first silence, then act; before acting, cover your eyes, then leave traces; if no traces are found, behead them.'"

“This writing looks like an imitation of the imperial brush,” Shen Lu sneered. “It’s a good imitation, but it’s not.”

Zhu Biao looked at it for a long time, then suddenly looked up and said, "Uncle, this house looks like it has been abandoned for a long time."

"No," Zhu Han shook his head, "it was only abandoned last night."

"Why?"

"The lamp's wick is new; the ashes on the table are thin, and the footprints are faint. Someone has taken away the things that could point to people, leaving only these things for us to see."

"Show us?"

“Yes.” Zhu Han closed the uncovered wooden box and said softly, “This is telling us—there is a ‘shadow,’ but the shadow has dissipated. If you try to chase it, you will not catch the person, but only the wind.”

"They want us to stop."

“They want us to—take our eyes off the light.” Zhu Han looked up, his eyes like knives. “Don’t worry, I won’t.”

They left the alleyway and returned to the windy spot.

A strong wind rustled the grass roots around the well. In the distance, the sound of a bell drifted by, deep and steady, as if it were being struck from a very deep place.

Zhu Biao suddenly said, "Uncle, you said 'return to the eyes,' and I've thought about it all night. We believe whoever the eyes see. What if one day even I can't see clearly anymore—what will you do?"

"Close your eyes," Zhu Han answered quickly.

"Close your eyes?"

“Closing your eyes doesn’t mean you don’t see.” Zhu Han smiled. “Closing your eyes is so that you can only see the light in your heart. If you have it, that’s enough.”

"Did I?"

"Yes." Zhu Han reached out and patted his shoulder. "You are the heart and soul of the Zhu family."

It was late at night when I returned home. The courtyard had a faint smell of pine smoke, and the lamps under the eaves were lit, but not glaringly.

Zhao Desheng, who was standing guard at the door, yawned. When he saw them return, he stood up straight in a flash: "Your Highness!"

"Hmm." Zhu Han stepped forward. "Is there anything hot in the kitchen?"

"Yes! I asked the princess to make some mutton soup—" He bit his tongue halfway through his sentence, "Cough, there's no such thing as a princess, I was just making it up."

Zhu Han laughed and cursed, "Get lost."

Zhao Desheng chuckled and withdrew, then couldn't help but lean closer and lower his voice: "Your Highness, someone came to inquire about Your Highness's well-being during the day."

"How did you ask?"

"They said they were asking on behalf of a high-ranking official from 'Beifang'."

"Who is 'Beifang'?" Shen Lu raised an eyebrow.

"Who knows? He's so smooth-talking. I had someone feed him two bowls of thin porridge, and he forgot everything." Zhao Desheng said smugly.

"Stop pouring it in." Zhu Han said calmly. "Next time, let him come and ask himself."

He entered the inner room and removed his cloak; the familiar golden light and shadow on the table then quietly rose. Only he could see it.

[Sign-in successful: Received "Imperial Strategy - Continued"]

[Note: This can be used in a 'shadow' situation to reveal the truth once the clouds have parted.]

Zhu Han stared at the words, remaining silent for a long time. The golden light, like water, slowly seeped into the table and disappeared from sight.

"Uncle?" Zhu Biao pushed open the door and entered. "Are you tired? I'll have someone bring some soup."

"Leave it there." Zhu Han casually draped his cloak over the screen, sat down, picked up his drink, and said, "Tomorrow morning, we'll go to South Street."

"What to do?"

"Look at people."

"Who?"

“An old man who makes seals.” Zhu Han put down his bowl. “The matter of the counterfeit seals won’t be resolved so quickly. Someone has to kill the seal maker so that everything can be forgotten like the wind.”

Zhu Biao nodded: "I'll go with you."

The next day, just as dawn broke and the thin mist still lingered over South Street, the shouts of vendors slowly emerged from the alley.

The inscription was carved in a corner, the door frame was polished smooth by sweaty hands, and the wooden plaque hanging on the door had two characters carved on it: "Jingke".

Zhu Han reached out and gently pushed. Inside the door sat a hunchbacked old man, his hand still steady, the knife moving on the stone, making a soft "squeak" sound.

"Old man," Zhu Han began, "who was it that contacted you last time to forge the seal?"

The old man seemed not to hear, continuing to circle the knife on the stone. Only after stopping the circle did he slowly raise his head: "What did you say, sir?"

"The person who forged the seal last time," Zhu Han repeated.

The old man's eyes were glistening with tears, as if he were looking at someone through a fog: "Sir, please make a copy of the seal. I only recognize the seal, not the person."

"What about the letter?"

"Burned."

"When?"

"Five days ago," the old man said, "someone brought me a food box with two pieces of cold meat inside. It smelled delicious. I was greedy and ate it all in no time. After I finished eating, my hands started shaking and my eyes started to blur. I burned all the old paper offerings in the house. When I woke up, the fire was out."

Who sent the food box?

"I don't know," the old man sighed. "I'm old, I only recognize knives, not feet."

Zhu Han glanced at the calluses on his hands and said calmly, "Your hands don't seem like those of a person who would tremble."

The old man smiled and said, "When people get old, one shake can last until they die."

He put down the knife, then suddenly looked up. "Sir, are you trying to arrest someone?"

"think."

"Then don't arrest them," the old man said. "If you arrest one, two more will come. If you block their way, they'll use other routes."

"Teach me, old man?"

"I'll teach you an old man's foolish method," the old man laughed, his wrinkles crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "Make sure you do the seal correctly."

Zhu Biao was taken aback: "Correct?"

There are countless seals in the world. But there is only one genuine seal. If you put the genuine seal where it should be, anyone who makes a fake seal will be a laughing stock.

After the old man finished speaking, he seemed tired, lowered his head, and continued to let the knife move on the stone, making a thin and long "squeak" sound.

On the way back to the mansion, Zhu Biao remained silent.

Once they reached the bridge, he whispered, "Uncle, what the old man meant by 'making the seal right'... do you understand?"

"I understand." Zhu Han looked at the slow-flowing water below the bridge. "I won't let them have any other meaningful routes." (End of Chapter)